The Measure of a Man
by Ithil-valon
Summary: What could the Captain General of Gondor and a slave of Harad have in common? As Boromir rides forth on his first mission, their lives will intersect to answer the question.
1. Chapter 1

**The Measure of a Man**

**Chapter One**

**The Captain General**

"_**Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trail and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved." Helen Keller**_

Boromir held his breath as he sunk beneath the surface of his bath in the bathing chamber he shared with his younger brother, Faramir. Each of their apartments opened onto this room from opposite sides. The bath, a huge, sunken affair created for the Númenóreans, was over ten feet long. He surfaced with a sputter, shaking his head like one of Denethor's hounds, and sending water droplets in every direction.

"Whoa brother," laughed sixteen year old Faramir, entering the chamber. "Do you mean to shower me?"

"Good morning, sleepy head," Boromir answered, without missing a beat. "What are you doing awake at such an evil hour. It is not even noon yet. Have you abandoned the academy so soon then?"

"Har, har," snarked the fox-haired sibling. "You know that I would not miss your commissioning. I have been up most of the night completing my assigned tasks so that I might be permitted absence from the troop's company this day."

Boromir caught the unusual tremor in his brother's voice. "What is it, Gingersnap? Something is amiss."

The young man ducked his head, formulating his thoughts as his brother stepped up the three stairs to exit the tub and wrapped a towel around his trim waist.

"You will be Captain General of Gondor's armies and Warden of the White Tower."

"Yes, and…"

"What will it mean between us?" stammered the younger brother. "You shall be my commanding officer."

"Faramir," soothed Boromir, taking the boy into his arms, for since their mother's death when Faramir was but five, Boromir had undertaken to fill the void in the child's life, even though he himself was only ten at the time. "Put away that worry, young one. Nothing shall ever come betwixt us."

"Well, in that case then..." Lightening quick, Faramir pushed his brother backwards. The soon-to-be Captain General did an undignified back flop into the tub, sending a spray of water over both sides.

Faramir was holding his sides laughing when a hand rose from the steamy mist to jerk him, fully clothed, into the tub.

"Now who is caught out?" laughed Boromir, as Faramir resurfaced sputtering and coughing.

"Now what will I do?" lamented Faramir. "My spare uniform is in the barracks! One simply may not attend break of fast with the Steward bare arsed!"

"Ah," considered Boromir. "A valuable lesson you have learned this day, Cadet Faramir. Never begin what you are ill prepared to finish!" Sniggering, Boromir once more emerged from the tub and dropped the now sopping towel onto the edge. "Pull yonder bath stop there, squab."

"If _yonder_ bath stop were only harder, one _might_ find it hitting one in the head!"

"Temper, temper," chided Boromir, still chuckling. "Come, it would not be inappropriate for a cadet to attend a private break of fast with his loving father and brother in his court robes rather than his academy uniform."

O-o-O-o-O

"Get up, you lazy cur!"

The lash landing across his bare back accompanied the customary morning greeting. Hammok, son of Rohan, now a slave of Harad, came quickly to his knees, bowing in acknowledgment of his master's call. Since his thirteenth year, the year of his majority, he had been a slave. Now sixteen, Hamm hated his lot more than ever and dreamed of the day he might once again see freedom. Freedom...how little he had considered the word until it was taken from him.

Hadon used the handle of his whip to lift the boy's face. With white-blonde hair framing cobalt blue eyes that were startling in their clarity, this slave was too valuable to mar. As always, Hadon's groin twitched when he considered his property. That Hammok was his, lifted his status and made him the envy of every man in his tribe.

Shouting from outside his opulent tent rudely interrupted Hadon's baser thoughts. "What now," he growled, striding quickly through the flapped opening. Fights were not uncommon amongst the Haradrim troop led by Hadon. They were a violent lot, fostered in the baking heat of Harad, one of the harshest environments in Middle-earth. They lived hard, and they fought hard. Nomadic by nature, this tribe survived by raiding, stealing and occasionally trading. Rape, murder, and torture were simply the sports that their occupation _gifted_ them. Slaves were their most lucrative trade goods, hence Hadon's ownership of the boy in his tent. What a stroke of genius it was to have increased their range to the lower reaches of Rohan, he mused. Fair hair always brought more coin to his purse from the buyers.

Hamm released the breath he had been holding as soon as the monster left the tent. Mornings too often brought the enforced intimacy that he so dreaded. The lad's only escape was in the dreams of home he kept fostered deep within his breast and in the hatred that fed his spirit. Raised in Rohan, Hamm very carefully reconstructed in his mind the modest home he shared with his parents. His father, a trader from Gondor, had fallen in love with his mother at first sight. Margreta could not bear to leave the Mark, so Andol had chosen to remain in Rohan with her.

For his first thirteen years, Hamm traveled with his parents between Gondor and Rohan as his father peddled his wares. The little family happily spent winters back in their cabin in the Westfold. It was a good life until the day the Haradrim raiders fell upon their small party of four wagons. The men had been burned alive, and the three women - his mother included - had provided sport while the boy was forced to watch. Hamm still had nightmares in which he could hear the screams and smell the charred flesh.

Quickly, he pulled his mind back to his duties before Hadon reappeared. So far his beatings had been short lived, probably because the bully did not wish to scar his skin. Hamm guessed that whether or not Hadon would one day tire of him and sell him in the markets was still up for debate. Hamm hoped and prayed that he would be sold, for being pawed by the man who had murdered his parents was too much to stomach. One day, Béma grant, he would avenge them.

Hamm quickly folded up the blankets to Hadon's bed, and then built a fire in the center of the tent beneath the venting hole. It was his job to cook his master's meal before breaking down the tent and preparing for the day's move. From the sounds without, Hadon had forced an end to whatever fracas his men had been involved in, but now that allowed the moans and cries of the slaves being held in the pen outside to penetrate Hamm's consciousness, no matter how hard he tried to block them out. Savagely, Hadon's tribe typically murdered – in the vilest way possible – all the adults the Haradrim found, preferring the ease of transporting children to the slave market. Comely maidens and lads were his best sellers, but young ones also fetched a good price for the years of service they might offer.

Leaving the tent to gather water, Hamm averted his eyes from the slave pen. He had learned from long experience it did not do to become attached with those poor souls bound for the markets, for when the inevitable parting came, it was all the worse. It broke his heart anew when they cried out to him for aid, especially the little ones. How many children of Rohan and Gondor had this troop stolen? Hamm longed to free them...to hold them and tell them that all would be well, but it was a lie. They were forsaken, as he was forsaken.

O-o-O-o-O

After break-fast with Boromir and his father, Faramir had raced to the Academy barracks on the lower level to retrieve his uniform. He took quite a ribbing from the other cadets when he was seen in the courtly robes. His cheeks still rosy from rushing back up to the Citadel, Faramir stood proudly to the side of the Steward's chair as Boromir knelt before Denethor and the other members of the ruling council. The cadet's eyes stole up to the golden crown suspended over the King's throne. If ever there was one, he mused, this man – his brother – was worthy enough to be a king.

Tall and well-muscled, Boromir was resplendent in his silver armor with the White Tree of Gondor etched on the chest, the perfect compliment to his imposing persona. This was a man that the soldiers of Gondor would follow unquestioningly. His broad sword hung at his side. Three inches wide, it required great strength of arm to wield, and was perfectly crafted for Boromir's might.

As usual, Boromir's bowed head was bare of helm. His green eyes danced with delight as he kissed the hexagonal silver ring set with obsidian and marked with a golden star. With a heart-stopping smile, he favored his father with a wink for his eyes only.

Denethor's noble face reflected the pride he felt for his son. Even on this day of celebration, the Steward wore a full-mail hauberk under his sable robe. Denethor himself had been a fine commander of men. Upon laying down the sword, when he took up the White Scepter of the Stewardship, he none-the-less had an iron will, and forced himself to carry the weight of the hauberk as his own personal statement of fitness. He stood to make the announcement to the gathered nobles. "Rise, newly gazetted Captain General of Gondor."

As the assembled guests applauded, Denethor held up a hand for silence. "Peace." When the guests quieted, he turned loving eyes to his younger son. "Lord Faramir, Cadet of the Academy, bring forth the Standard."

Faramir reached behind him for the poled banner. He carried it forward and, with a bow, offered it to his father.

Denethor took the standard and presented it to Boromir. "From this day forth, this shall be the Standard of the Captain General of Gondor, Warden of the White Tower." The standard, white like all the others of Gondor, displayed the White Tower, quartered with the Horn of Gondor, the White Tree, and the Swan Ship of Dol Amroth.

Speechless, Boromir took the standard. His eyes conveyed to his father and brother the deep message that his lips could not formulate.

Denethor then led his sons out of the Citadel to be met by the people they both had sworn to protect with their lives. As the magnificent carved doors were opened, the gathered assembly broke into thunderous cheers of adoration for their ruling family. Denethor removed himself to stand beside Faramir as Boromir stepped forward to greet the gathered troops and populace. He noted that his personal standard was interspersed with those of the Steward and Gondor's all along the length of the embrasure, snapping crisply in the stout breeze. The sunlit sky was nearly cloudless, for the prevailing winds blew the sludge of Mordor back to its own borders, as though Eru smiled approval upon the happy event.

Boromir embraced his new position with the confidence and leadership that had marked his entire life. "People of Gondor, I shrink not from this appointment; I welcome it. Our land stands between Mordor and all the peoples of Middle-earth. It is _our_ blood that spills upon the ground for all. The light of the White City _will_ shine forth to destroy the darkness. On my strength, my honor, my life, we shall prevail!

TBC

My thanks to Evendim for the use of her world of characters and for her continued encouragement. Boromir's standard is her creation.


	2. Chapter 2, Starry Night

**The Measure of a Man**

**Chapter Two**

**Starry Night**

_**Starry, starry night. **_

_**Paint your palette blue and grey,**_

_**Look out on a summer's day,**_

_**With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.**_

_**Shadows on the hills,**_

_**Sketch the trees and the daffodils,**_

_**Catch the breeze and the winter chills,**_

_**In colors on the snowy linen land.**_

_**Don McLean**_

Boromir, newly gazetted Captain General of Gondor, knelt on a Government Issue, plain wool blanket using his tinder box to spark the kindling beneath gathered wood. Once a decent fire was going, the man made preparations to roast the fowl he'd trapped for dinner. Raised in the highest level of Gondorian society, Boromir was still happiest with a simple fare prepared by his own hand over an open fire.

From where he camped on Mount Mendolluin, Boromir had a magnificent view of a sky painted by Anor's sinking light. As the pinks and oranges gave way to the deep blues and grays of evening, tiny pin pricks of light began to twinkle in the sky above, heralding the approach of night.

Many a man had made the mistake of thinking of the Captain General as only a soldier with a soldier's simple intellect, but it was not so, for Boromir masked his razor sharp intellect with a self depreciating wit. Such was his prowess with weaponry that few would believe him the holder of such a gentle soul which could recite poetry, for he carefully guarded this part of himself.

Supremely confident in his own manhood, Boromir felt no need to hide the affection he held for those he loved, particularly his younger brother, and rather than weakening him in his army's eyes, it strengthened their own affection and appreciation for their commanding officer. Boromir was a larger than life personage, who loved deeply and fully, and fought with equal vigor.

Were you to ask him what was his most important quality, he would unquestioningly say his honor, while those who loved him would as soon cite his best attribute to be his noble heart.

The delicious scent of the roasting duck made his mouth water as Boromir turned the fowl for even cooking. Drops of fat sizzled as they fell into the fire, releasing even more tempting aromas. Ori banked the fire to allow for slower cooking, and settled back onto his blanket to wait, content to star watch in an attempt to ease his weary heart.

Both he and his brother were _gifted_ with a second sense as it were, and Boromir had suffered an unsettling dream vision last night. He closed his eyes as the memory replayed itself.

_Images blurred as though he were being spun rapidly in a circle, even as his senses reached out to grasp reality._ _There was water, for he could perceive the myriad flashes of light as the rays of Anor reflected upon its surface. There was blood also, for the metallic scent of it was thick and cloying in the back of his throat. Lastly, there was Teddy. Théodred, heir to the throne of Rohan, and shield brother to Boromir, was in the midst of a whirlwind of combat. As though in slow motion, Boromir could see drops of sweat being thrown from his forehead as Teddy swung to meet the next threat, a giant beast with murder in its heart. Slaughter was the word which came to mind. With a great cry, the beast slashed his sword across Théodred's stomach, as even in the recognition of a dream, Boromir gasped and called out to his friend. Suddenly the spinning ceased and only the two men remained as Teddy looked directly at his shield brother, smiled, and then beckoned for him to follow. But follow where?_

He had awakened then. Battle was no stranger to either man, for the world was currently mired in the conflict of good versus evil, and orcs and other foul beings of Mordor harassed both countries. What he pondered was the meaning of Teddy's smile as he called to Ori. His heart told him that it was not an immediate summons, but one that would come in the future. Nor was the smile on the handsome face the fierce grin that Théodred so often wore in battle, but one of absolute peace. It bore the promise of a peace that neither of them had known in their lifetime.

Boromir was not afraid to die in battle, and he did not believe that Théodred was either. They were soldiers, for what better cause could they shed their life's blood than in the defense of their countries?

**Starry, starry night**

**Portraits hung in empty halls,**

**Frameless heads on nameless walls, with eyes that watch the world and can't forget.**

**Like the strangers that you've met, the ragged men in the ragged clothes,**

**The silver thorn of bloody rose, lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.**

Denethor sat alone in the great hall. Total darkness was only kept at bay by the flickering to two torches, for that is all he had allowed to be lit. His heart was heavy, but his mind whirled, as he contemplated a most dangerous course of action.

Rising from the Steward's chair, he paced the empty hall, accompanied only by the hollow sound of his boot steps echoing on the marble floors. A shiver coursed down his spine caused not by cold, but by the sheer force of what his heart contemplated.

It was there, just waiting for him. Did he dare attempt to use it, even though it was his right to do so? The Anor-Stone, the Palantír, which had resided for so long at Anárion's stronghold of Minas Anor, now lay waiting for him...calling to him.

Denethor was no fool. To utilize this weapon held great risks. Yet even as he respected the risks, he also valued the wealth of information he might gain in the fight against the enemy. Gondor. All he did was for Gondor.

**Now I understand what you tried to say to me,**

**How you suffered for your sanity, how you tried to set them free.**

**They would not listen; they're not listening still,**

**Perhaps they never will...**

Hamm lay listening for Hadon's breathing to deepen and fall into the regular pattern of sleep. The boy slept on the floor of the tent at the foot of his master's bed, and it was only after sleep had descended upon Hadon that Hamm felt safe enough to surrender himself to thoughts of home. In the dark he could smile, he could close his eyes without fearing a slap, and he could travel the paths of memory unmolested.

This night, however, he could find no peace, for the soft cries of the latest captives carried across the distance to where he lay. Hamm tried to block out the sound, first by forcing his mind elsewhere, and then by holding his hands over his ears. The trouble was that even if he could close off the sound, he could not close off his heart. Try as he might, Hamm could no more ignore the plight of those pitiful children than he could deny his own circumstance.

The boy was on the threshold of manhood, and though he had been a slave for three years, thirteen years of freedom and Rohirric pride beat in his heart. Slowly, so as not to make a sound, he rolled to his knees. Hadon had left bread and meat on his plate when he drank himself into a stupor a few hours earlier. Hamm believed the man would never remember doing so. If he could get it and get out of the tent safely, he might be able to steal across the camp to the captives. The troop was deep within Harad, journeying to their home of Jahalobad, and thus the guards felt safe to be lax in their duties, especially while their leader slumbered.

Hamm inched his way across the floor, freezing and holding his breath when Hadon turned over in his sleep. Once the man was still, he waited for several minutes before moving again. Carefully, in the pitched darkness, he used his hands to feel for the metal plate, which Hadon had tossed aside. Finally, after what seemed like an interminably long effort, he located the dish. Grabbing the bread and meat, he secreted it within the fold of his tunic, just above the belt. Next he gingerly felt up the tent pole for the skin of water that hung there, easing it from its hook. Thus armed, Hamm carefully made his way to the tent opening.

Easing aside the flap, the boy looked out across the campground. All seemed quiet, with only a few fires still burning outside the gathered tents. The two men tasked with guard duty were sitting beside a fire on the opposite side of camp – no doubt so their voices would not carry to Hadon as they swapped tales – drinking the strong, dark coffee beverage they preferred.

Hamm smiled, for they were well occupied and would not notice him making his way to the pen where the captives were held. There were presently five children in captivity. The oldest appeared to be around 12 years of age. She was a dark haired girl taken from Gondor a few weeks ago. The other four, all boys, looked to be in that same range, except for the blond haired little boy from Rohan who looked to has passed four or five winters.

Edging up to the pen railing, Hamm held his finger to his mouth to signal the children that they must keep silent. It was the youngest child that Hamm had heard crying, for he could see the tear streaks still evident on the boy's chubby cheeks. Hamm handed the skin of water through the rails to the girl, while he began to pull out the food. The children were fed and watered daily, but only minimally. He broke off pieces of bread and handed them to the children, then followed with the meat. Handing a bit of the roasted hare to the child of Rohan, he could not resist giving the boy an encouraging smile. Hamm had meant to only give the children food and water, and then return to his tent. Any more could mean an emotional attachment, which for a slave could prove disastrous, but this young one pulled at his heart.

Hamm gently wiped the tears from the child's face. "What is your name?" he whispered.

"Mykill," responded the boy, with a hiccup.

"Mykill, dry your tears, for you are a son of Rohan," Hamm encouraged him. He nodded his head towards the chatting guards. "Do not show them weakness, for it will only embolden them."

Mykill leaned closer to Hamm, reaching to put his hand on Hamm's arm. "I am afraid," he admitted. "How will I find my way home?"

Hamm's heart shattered at that plea, for well he knew the odds that any of them were ever likely to see home again, but he could not bring himself to dash the child's hope, even though he had none himself. "Do you see that star," he said, pointing to the brightest star in the sky. "It will always lead you home."

**This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you...**

His meal finished, Boromir lay down gazing at the night sky. Few would have guessed that it was one of his favorite pastimes. Tomorrow he would return to Minas Tirith to take up the reins of his responsibilities as Captain General, but tonight he still had these last hours of reflection to store up, in his soul, peace, to be drawn upon in times of greatest need. He had journeyed here alone as his own form of pilgrimage to pay homage to those who had gone before him in this office, and to seek the blessing of Eru Ilúvatar on this endeavor.

As he gazed star ward, he wondered whether those he loved now gazed upon the same vista. His poet's heart composed his own song to join those of the ages.

_You call to me, so vast, dark and quiet._

_In the busy, noisy day my mind returns to you,_

_Seeking your beauty and calmness._

_I long to journey to you, discovering your secrets,_

_Finding my destiny in your depths._

_But I am earthbound._

_Only my imagination soars through you, _

_Thrilled with each new sight,_

_Capturing the miracle of timelessness._

_You are my refuge._

_My mind is quickened by your mystery;_

_My spirit is healed through your wonder._

_We are one, and I am eternal._

_TBC_

Vincent, also known as Starry, Starry Night, was written by Don McLean.

The poem in my own.


	3. Chapter 3, Of Chickens and Men

**The Measure of a Man**

**Chapter Three**

**Of Chickens and Men**

_**Our concept of governing is derived from our view of people. It is a concept deeply rooted in a set of beliefs firmly etched in the national conscience, of all of us.**_

_**~ Barbara Jordan**_

This chapter is dedicated to Evendim, who gave me the idea and the letter! Thanks, EJ! 

The Captain General stood in the doorway watching his father conduct business. His practiced eye took in every detail, from the obligatory hauberk his father wore under his robe, to the fatigue in his eyes.

Boromir had bathed and changed clothes after returning to the Citadel early this morning. He wanted to visit with his father before going to the barracks. Entering the chamber from a side door near the conference rooms, he was partially hidden in the shadows and able to observe unnoticed. How utterly absurd were so many of the arguments the Steward was forced to hear when the country was constantly harassed by the hords of Mordor. What possible difference could whose chicken it was matter when life and death hung in the balance? Not for him the daily grind of court politics and arbitration.

With a shake of his head and a deep throated chuckle, he walked forward as a break in the schedule presented itself. Morning light poured through the eastern windows, casting long shadows from the statues on that side of the great hall. The marble floor shone in the golden rays.

"Here he is," beamed Denethor to his scribe, "my firstborn and the newest Captain General of Gondor."

"May I add my felicitations Captain General," bowed the scribe, a balding, bow-legged man that Boromir did not recognize.

"Thank you," Boromir acknowledged, pausing. "Forgive me; I do not know your name."

"I am Nomar, my lord, from Imloth Meluie," replied the still deeply bowing scribe. "How may I help my lord?"

"Please rise, Nomar," urged Boromir. "You will help me best by aiding my father, the Lord Steward."

"That is my greatest honor, Captain General," vowed Nomar. "My heart and that of my family belongs to the House of Húrin."

"You are excused, Nomar," said Denethor, still smiling at his son.

"He seems a good sort," indicated Boromir, nodding his head at the retreating scribe, "not at all like that last one from Lebinnen. What was his name?"

"Mallos," supplied the Steward.

Boromir barked back a laugh. "Of course, how could I have forgotten? Was ever a man more un-aptly named? Golden flower, indeed!"

Denethor chuckled at his son's wicked sense of humor. "Now child, his hygiene was impeccable; he simply had an unbalance of the body which caused a certain..."

"Stench?" supplied Boromir.

"Malodor," finished Denethor. "Other than that, he was a good scribe."

"Nomar can be a good scribe without the nasty side effect."

Denethor waved his son closer. "Let us not speak of scribes, for you are about to assume great duties, which shall take you from me even more than you are gone now."

The Captain General knelt before his father and bowed his head. "I vow to thee my loyalty, even unto my death."

Denethor placed both of his hands on Boromir's golden locks and then bestowed a kiss there also. "You swore your official oath to me many years ago, my son. Why do you now say another?"

Boromir stood up and kissed his father's forehead. "May a son ever profess loyalty to his lord and father too often?"

Denethor rose. "Come, let us adjourn to my study. Nomar will have sent for tea and cakes by now, if I am any judge of my scribes."

Boromir followed his father out the side door to the adjoining hallway. Various conference chambers were situated along this side of the white tower, and one had been remodeled into a small study for the steward during the reign of Ecthelion II. It provided a cozy place of refuge for small periods of rest when the weight of responsibility began to wear on the ruler. It was here that Denethor led Boromir, and sure enough, a tray bearing tea and small cakes rested on a low table set between two chairs situated in front of the brazier.

Once his father was seated, Boromir sat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "How do you stand it, father?"

"Stand what, child?" asked Denethor, cocking his head to the side.

Boromir sighed and began pouring tea into one of the delicate cups. Ladling in honey, he stirred absentmindedly before offering it to his father. "All of the petty complaints I heard in just the few moments I observed court." He shook his head, "Chickens!"

Denethor just chuckled as he accepted the cup. Dust motes and smoke from the fire floated in the shafts of light streaming through the windows high above them.

Unable to be still, Boromir stood and began pacing. "You have the weight of all Gondor upon your shoulders, and it requires your time to end a chicken dispute?"

"Sit child, else I shall have a sore neck on top of everything else," smiled Denethor. "Boromir, in times of war or in times of crisis, people need normalcy...need routine and traditions to cling to more than at any other time. The formality of protocol reminds them that their Steward is still in charge, that the burden is not theirs, and that whatever comes he will lead them through it. And," he added with a twinkle in his eyes, "strife within the city is not always a bad thing; it works to make people forget that times are hard when they are arguing about trifles...such as chickens."

Boromir's eyes shone with pride as he gazed at his father in wonder. "You must promise me to live forever, for I could never hope to rule in the shadow of one so great as you."

It was Denethor's turn to snort. "Is there anything else you would like for me to order up from Eru, such as a more moderate winter or perhaps holding the rains until after your camp is set each evening?"

Before Boromir could respond there was a tap at the door. Carrying a silver tray with a parchment upon it, Nomar entered and bowed to his Steward. "A missive for the Captain General, my lord."

Denethor waved his hand for Nomar to deliver the communication.

Boromir took the parchment, broke the seal and, a frown on his fair features, read:

_From: Captain Madron, Commandant of the Ithilien Brigade._

_To: Captain-General of Gondor, and High Warden of the White Tower, the Lord Boromir of the House of Hurin._

_Sir,_

_Having made this request through official channels, many times, to no avail, I appeal directly to you as a brother officer. The Ithilien Brigade is dangerously low on supplies, and, as a consequence, this unit is operating under strength. Many of my rangers are ill, some from wounds received, many from illness due to poor diet and over work. My men are reduced to hunting to supplement the dry goods which remain, but which are also now dwindling._

_For the love of Eru, fight our corner in the Citadel, my lord, 'ere we go under!_

_Yours to command,_

_Captain Madron._

"Is there a problem I should know about?" inquired Denethor.

Folding the parchment, Boromir shook his head. "Allow my shoulders to bear the weight of this 'chicken', father." He bowed to grace his father's cheek with another kiss. "It is time for Gondor's Captain General to go to work. Stay, finish your tea, for you have earned it. As I journeyed down the mountain, I saw the lights burning in your chamber long before dawn." With a last smile to Denethor, Boromir turned to the scribe. "Nomar, a word, please."

Nomar, too, bowed to Denethor and then followed the Captain General into the hallway. "My Lord?"

"You said that your heart belonged to the House of Húrin," he reminded the Scribe. "Does that include me?"

"My word is my bond." Then he smiled wryly. "I was not always a scribe, General, and I _know_ how to follow orders."

Boromir smiled and clasped the man on the shoulder. "Good, that is exactly what I wanted to hear. Now here is my plan."

O-o-O-o-O

Jahalobad. Hamm hated this place with everything in him. Here was Hadon's home and the location of the slave auction for this area of Harad. If ever there was a location that was home to more misery, he could not imagine where it would be...certainly no place Hamm ever wanted to find. Sun baked huts blended monotonously with the color of the sand, broken only by the small bursts of green fronds atop the spindly trees. Hamm had never seen tress such as these in Gondor or Rohan.

The crack of a lash against his back brought the boy's thoughts back to his task. While in Jahalobad, Hadon would reside in his home, so it was Hamm's responsibility to stow the tent and provisions in large baskets. All of the bedding and rugs went into one basket. Beside that one the boy packed the cooking gear and eating utensils. Crocks were place on a shelf in the small hut behind the master's home. Basically, everything was within easy reach, for invariably they would strike out again once the slave auction was complete and provisions were laid in.

Shouting mixed with the braying of animals was normal for Jahalobad, where dust choked you even on the best of days, but a shrill cry caught Hamm's attention. It was Mykill.

The child had made a run for it and was being chased...more toyed with...by the guards. Hamm's heart sunk. He had seen it too many times before.

Mykill ran between the legs of a donkey, who kicked the guard chasing him. Loud cursing accompanied the roar of pain. Mykill screamed as the guard wrenched him by the arm, and Hamm could stand no more.

Running for he was worth, Hamm tackled the surprised guard, who dropped the screaming child. Cradling his broken arm, Mykill watched in awe as Hamm pummeled the guard. A second guard ran over and backhanded Hamm, sending him flying off his prey. As blows began to rain down upon him, he grabbled Mykill, pulling him into his arms and protecting him with his own body.

"Enough," shouted Hadon, striding angrily into the fray. "What have you done?" he demanded of the guard, who was getting sullenly to his feet. "Have you damaged my property!"

"The child ran," he appealed, knowing well Hadon's legendry temper. "I was just trying to catch him."

"Hamm, I will deal with you later, but for now, let me see the boy," said Hadon. "Now!"

Hamm rolled over, careful to avoid jostling the child's obviously broken arm. Mykill was shaking, even in the afternoon heat, and Hamm feared he was going into shock.

Hadon was furious when he saw the broken arm. Pointing his whip at the offending guard, he growled, "I cannot sell a damaged slave." Shaking out the whip, he began beating the unlucky guard. After 25 lashes, the guard was virtually unconscious, bleeding into the sand. "You are lucky I don't break your arm, too," he added. "Get him out of my sight before I kill him," he ordered the onlookers.

Hamm kept his eyes on Mykill, afraid to meet Hadon's infuriated gaze. The child could not know it, but slaves who attempted to run away were staked out into the sun to die a horrible, slow death. It was also death to attack a guard, and though he expected the killing blow at any moment, Hamm could not regret his actions. If he died protecting an innocent, then he would die as a son of Rohan should.

Instead of striking Hamm, Hadon sighed. Damn. He had wanted to get the sale over with and spend a few days relaxing before the tribe struck back out on another raid. Normally he would just kill the whelp and be done with it, but this one, with his blond hair and blue eyes, was worth a lot of money. He narrowed his eyes shrewdly. Hamm knew he risked death to help the boy. Hadon could use that. "Hamm, take the boy to your quarters and tend to him. He will stay with us while he recovers."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4, Taking Stock

**The Measure of a Man**

**Chapter Four**

**Taking Stock**

**"The leader who exercises power with honor will work from the inside out, starting with himself." Blaine Lee**

_Nomar, too, bowed to Denethor and then followed the Captain General into the hallway. "My Lord?"_

"_You said that your heart belonged to the House of Húrin," he reminded the Scribe. "Does that include me?"_

"_My word is my bond." Then he smiled wryly. "I was not always a scribe, General, and I know how to follow orders."_

_Boromir smiled and clasped the man on the shoulder. "Good, that is exactly what I wanted to hear. Now here is my plan." _

Leading the scribe down the hallway, Boromir fired off questions in rapid succession, pleased to find each answered swiftly and succinctly by the scribe. Nodding his head in satisfaction he gave his orders to Nomar and turned to pay a personal visit to the quartermaster. While he walked he began mentally compiling a list of supplies he planned to requisition for Henneth Annûn.

To a casual observer, the young captain general appeared to be making a peaceful stroll to begin his morning. In truth, Boromir was livid. That the rangers were so under-supplied was criminal. These brave men were Gondor's first line of defense, doing their job unheralded and in the most perilous of conditions, often buying time for the regular forces of Gondor to react to threats with their lives.

By the time he reached the quartermaster's office, he was resolved to do whatever it took to make sure a supply was sent this very day, for he intended to lead it himself. Boromir slammed opened the thick wooden door to the small, chilly office. The noise of it striking the wall behind reverberated off the walls. "On your feet, man," he snapped.

The startled man inside came quickly, if clumsily, to his feet, tugging on his wrinkled jacked in a vain attempt to force buttons to actually reach the holes. The yeoman to the quartermaster had held this post for the past forty years, and the kindest thing one might say about his appearance was that he had gone to seed. Boromir stepped around the paper littered desk to take in the man's appearance, from the dusty, scuffed boots to the balding head. Rumey eyes seemed to rest atop a bulbous nose as he blinked nervously. His tunic was clean, Boromir supposed, but so dingy as to be gray. The uniform jacket, which he had given up attempting to button across the much expanded and sagging waist line, must once have been proudly worn. Lastly, the captain general's eyes were drawn to the withered arm that now hung limply at the man's side.

Boromir took a calming breath. This was no line officer and could definitely not be treated as such. "Your name?"

The poor man swallowed loudly, the prominent bulge in his throat bobbing up and down with the effort. "A-Aldamar, sir."

"Be at ease, Aldamar," replied Boromir. "Where is the quartermaster?"

Relaxing slightly, but clearly not at ease, Aldamar continued to regard his new commanding officer, while wishing fervently that he had worn the newer of his two old jackets. A veteran of many campaigns under Lords Denethor and Thorongil, Aldamar had been badly wounded in battle and unable to continue in his command. One of that rare breed known as career soldiers, Aldamar's life was the cavalry, for he had never married. Moved by the man's devotion, Denethor had appointed him to the post he now held, yeoman to the quartermaster. Aldamar knew that he was probably past the time when he should step down in favor of another, but the prospect of his life without the military was a bleak one. He now hung his head in shame as he realized that he had allowed his duty to slip as much as his appearance had. "The quartermaster is...is...away, sir."

Boromir bit back a sharp retort. He would take up that matter with the quartermaster and not his yeoman.

"May I offer you a seat, sir?" Aldamar bowed slightly indicating a dusty chair across from his desk. "I have a pot of hot water here as well," he said quickly. "I will make you some tea."

Boromir sized the man up and took the proffered seat. "Thank you. Aldamar...I remember my father speaking of an Aldamar that served under him. Would that be you?"

The quartermaster's small eyes lit up with pride. "The steward spoke of me?" Unconsciously, the stooped shoulders straightened. "He was a good commander, that one...a real man of honor. Proud to serve under him, I was." His voice trailed off to a sigh as he made the tea, lost in thoughts of the past.

Boromir smiled to himself. This was a man he could work with...one who had become lax, perhaps, with the passage of time, but not dishonest or worse, lacking in compassion for the troops. He reached to accept the steaming mug offered by the aging soldier. No, he would save his ire for the absent quartermaster.

"I am proud to have the Captain General share some tea with me, sir. How may I help you?"

Boromir took a sip of the weak tea, undoubtedly made with re-used leaves in an attempt to stretch their use, and looked at the general shabbiness of the man before him with new eyes. Was pay so low that a man who had devoted his life to the army should be forced to subsist in such a way? He mentally added this to the list of things to investigate. No one should be forced to work for a wage that was too low to support himself in a decent manner, especially one who had bled for Gondor.

"Aldamar, I received a troubling missive from the commander of the Ithilien Brigade this morning. They are dangerously low on supplies and many of the troop are falling ill. I know that I need not tell you of the importance of these men in the defense of Gondor."

"Aye, Sir," Aldamar replied, setting down his cracked mug. "I worry for them myself. Many of the supplies we send end up stolen or siphoned off before they reach the refuge. I remember the difficulties of serving in the field and how just so little as a warm meal could restore heart in a battered soul."

Boromir forced himself not to pounce on the man, but the phrase, "siphoned off" had raised an alarm. "You say the supplies are stolen, and than I can understand with the difficulty of the terrain, but please explain how they are siphoned off."

Aldamar reddened as he realized what he had said. "Er...well, sir..." His mind raced furiously as he tried to figure out how to remain loyal to his immediate supervisor and his commanding officer at the same time. His love for his fellow soldiers won out over any loyalty he felt towards the current quartermaster.

"You may speak freely," Boromir urged, "for I judge you to be a man of honor yourself."

Taking a deep breath, Aldamar proceeded. "The supplies are requisitioned, sir, but somehow they never seem to get there. Yet on any given night one may buy army grade blankets and socks at a discount in certain taverns on the lower levels. It is just a crying shame, sir, if I do say so, and I bitterly regret that I let fear for my own sorry skin keep me from speaking up about it sooner."

Boromir was very still, banking the fires of his anger until he could loose them on the proper party. He met Aldamar's eyes. "Requisition an ample supply of provisions for the rangers. I want them resupplied in every area. Can you have everything ready within the hour?"

"Yes, sir!" replied Aldamar, jumping to his feet. "I will not fail you, Lord Boromir."

Boromir clasped his shoulder fondly. "I know you will not. Use as many men as it takes, but have those supplies ready!"

O-o-O-o-O

Hadon's eyes narrowed as the looked more closely at Hamm, still shielding the crying child. One of those startlingly blue eyes was swollen nearly shut, and several cuts were oozing blood. Hadon was not one to limit his own anger, but he was salesman enough to realize the relative value of an unmarked slave verses one bearing obvious signs of misuse, therefore his anger was always tempered with that thought. Now he grew angry all over again that his slave might be permanently scarred.

"Shabib," he yelled.

The chief slaver approached quickly, bowing low. "How may I serve my master?" If one did not know better, it would be easy to mistake Shabib for one of his charges, so dirty and ragged were the robes he wore. Rather than a lack of funds, it was more a lack of effort at even the simplest hygiene that was his problem.

"Get these men under control. We will be here for weeks now while the slaves heal. They are no good to us dead or too marked up to sell well, especially the fair haired ones. Every moment's delay will come from your commission. Do you understand me?"

Shabib had begun wailing at Hadon's pronouncement. His love of money was well known, for even his own family had not been spared from his greed.

"Stop your slobbering and be gone," screamed Hadon, the veins of his neck protruding from his effort.

Disgustedly, he turned and kicked Hamm, who was rising awkwardly to his feet. "I said get that boy inside and stop his infernal crying." With that, he stalked off, too furious at the situation to trust himself not to beat both boys to death just to relieve some of his anger. That would not be prudent, he reminded himself, already thinking of the money he would make from this last batch. Hamm and the other white haired boy would be worth their weight in gold, for he had decided the time had come to part with Hamm for fear that he would become marred before Hadon could profit from him. The others, the girl and three boys taken from Gondor, should, once he fattened them back up a bit, prove to be valuable as well. The girl was comely, with her silky dark hair and gray eyes. While dark hair was the norm in Harad, the fair skin and light eyes were not. The other three boys were young and promised long years of service.

Hamm lifted Mykill so as not to jostle the boy's broken arm. It was difficult to walk in the sand, but he hurried as quickly as he could. His room was small and airless, opening off of Hadon's bed chamber, but it offered what the tent did not...precious privacy.

Laying Mykill as gently as he could onto the pallet on the floor, Hamm continually soothed the traumatized child. The arm was swelling even as Hamm began to feel of the position of the broken bone.

Mykill whimpered and attempted to bite back a sob as Hamm worked.

"I am sorry, little one, but I must fix your arm so that it does not set wrong and become useless. Hamm's examination reminded him of the spring boughs he used to play with as a child. They were too green to break easily, but would only split on one side. He should be able to simply pull it back into place and secure it. It would be painful, to be sure, but should heal properly, _if_ it was as he thought.

"Mykill, I am going to reset your bone now. It will hurt, but not for long." Hamm's heart wrenched at the terrified look on the boy's face. "Would you like to hear what the warriors in the Éoreds do when they are wounded?"

The child nodded quickly, his breath coming in quick inhales.

"The warriors have been known to have entire limbs removed without even so much as crying out," lied Hamm, who was too young when he was taken to have been much around any of the Éoreds.

"They do?" breathed Mykill, intrigued by what his idol was saying.

"Um hum," continued Hamm, as he broke off a slat of wood from the side of the window and tore strips from his bedding. "They hold a piece of leather between their teeth," finished Hammock.

"Is it magic?" asked Mykill.

"No," replied Hamm softly, "it is the heart of Rohan." Having gathered everything, he paused to look into Mykill's eyes. "I do not have leather, but you can have part of this wood slat to put between your teeth. Bite down on it when you feel pain and you will be like a true warrior. Are you ready?"

Mykill took a shaky breath and placed the proffered bit of wood between his teeth. Then he turned trusting, if tearful, eyes to Hamm.

Immediately, Hamm pulled the arm into place and secured it against the wooden slat with the strips of cloth. Mykill never made a sound as the young man worked quickly. Never had Hamm been as proud.

O-o-O-o-O

The supplies readied, Boromir prepared to leave the troop down through the levels of the city. Overhead the clouds which had steadily been gathering were rent by a deep rumble. Oh joy, Boromir chuckled to himself. Likely he would be thoroughly soaked before reaching the refuge. He turned to glance back at the gathered group of cavalry, and saw then looking askance at their charge.

On four of the pack horses, wooden pens strapped to each side of them contained loudly squawking chickens. The noise was abominable. The captain general sighed. They would draw every orc for miles around at this rate. Well, it could not be helped and he had a sufficient troop with him to handle most contingencies. He was determined that the rangers would have a good meal. The troop would make decent time and be able to travel a good distance before nightfall. Boromir preferred not to be on the road during the hours of darkness, especially with so large a supply to be protected. They would reach Henneth Annûn tomorrow.

Glancing up, he saw that Denethor had come onto the balcony of his rooms, drawn, no doubt, by the cacophony of noisy fowl. Boromir cringed. Rather than the nice succulent roasted birds expected for tonight's state dinner, there would be a _nice_ chicken stew, long on vegetables and short on chicken. With Nomar's aid, Boromir had thoughtfully left barely enough chickens for the stew. Even from this distance, he could see Denethor's eyebrow rise. Boromir saluted, winked, and turned his horse to begin the rather unusual procession. His plan was to wait until they were closer to the refuge before killing all the chickens so that there would be no chance of spoilage, not to mention keeping noise to a minimum as they traversed the hostile lands.

As the unusual procession wound it way down through the city, citizens drawn by the spectacle lined the way. Boromir had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud at the looks on some of their faces as they realized it was the Steward's very own heir leading this mismatched procession of horses, donkeys, wains and chickens instead of the regular spit and polish cavalry wearing armor glossed to a shiny finish.

When he spied Faramir's horrified face among those of the other cadets hastily called out to stand at attention as the captain general rode by, he lost his battle. Boromir's guffaws could still be heard even has he rounded the curve down to the next level.

TBC


End file.
